


gotta blame it on the goose

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Untitled Goose Game (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Soulmate Goose of Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Untitled Goose Game Fusion, Book Recommendations, Dubious Local Folklore, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: To be clear, things have definitely changed between them. They practically live in each other’s pockets now that they have no pretenses to keep them apart. They spend even more copious amounts on wine and liquor, and sit up until dawn talking and drinking. They even touch each other more, but never in a way that could be construed as more than friendly.There’s nothing stopping them. Heaven and Hell have both faffed off and they haven’t heard a peep from anybody in months. He keeps waiting for Aziraphale to say or do something, but their new normal appears to have reached an equilibrium. He wouldn’t go back to the way it was, but he wishes he could know whether this is the first step along a path or where things are and will be. The angel did take a pretty big leap recently (relative to their time scales, anyways). Crowley’s used to waiting for him. It’s fine. Really, it is.—In which Crowley pines, tells a goose about it, and somebody takes the situation into their own wings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 333





	gotta blame it on the goose

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm not sorry](https://twitter.com/ohjefframos/status/1176855252349390848).

Neither of them could stay away from London (or any city, really) for too long, but the ability to say “sod it” when it gets to be too much (people, traffic, transcendentally shitty queer club music*) and go away for a little bit is something they feel is well-deserved. So they find a little cottage in the South Downs in a town with excellent restaurants and within driving distance of opera and playhouses. 

[* It must be noted that while heterosexual club music can also be odious, the way in which it is so is different.]

They don’t bring a whole lot with them, given they will still have primary residency in London; but of course things must be brought in to give the place personality. Crowley watches Aziraphale unpack dishes, a kettle, silverware; making note of the available space so they can buy a kitchen table that fits. The sun shines on his hair, lighting it up like an actual halo. It makes something in his chest shift in awe and gratitude, that he gets to live with his best friend and spend the rest of their days together. That’s more than he ever thought he would get. 

Aziraphale looks up from his measurement scribbling and smiles, soft but somehow still brilliant, blinding. His heart does something that probably would not be good if it happened in a human. The thought that occurs to Crowley is not _I love him_ or _I’m in love with him_. He’s known both for as long as he’s known Aziraphale. What he thinks, when Aziraphale catches him looking, is _I wish I could know for sure_. 

To be clear, things have definitely changed between them. They practically live in each other’s pockets now that they have no pretenses to keep them apart. There are no more furtive looks when they walk around town, no silly spy rendezvous nonsense (unless it’s fun). They spend even more copious amounts on wine and liquor, and sit up until dawn talking and drinking. They even touch each other more, but never in a way that could be construed as more than friendly. (Aziraphale reached over to brush away a stray eyelash about six months after Armagedidn’t, and Crowley thought about the gentle scrape of his fingernail on his skin for weeks.) 

There’s nothing stopping them. Heaven and Hell have both faffed off and they haven’t heard a peep from anybody in months. He keeps waiting for Aziraphale to say or do something, but their new normal appears to have reached an equilibrium. He wouldn’t go back to the way it was, but he wishes he could know whether this is the first step along a path or where things are and will be. The angel did take a pretty big leap recently (relative to their time scales, anyways). Crowley’s used to waiting for him. It’s fine. Really, it is.

—

The first time he sees the goose he’s out in the back tending to the herb boxes. There’s no point in having an actual garden here when he can’t tend it, but herbs are easy and nigh-on indestructible. 

At first he thinks it’s a rather large duck, but the shape of the beak is different. Also no duck he’s ever seen has had such sheer malevolence in its eyes. Crowley being the sort of demon he was(? Is still?), knows all about gradations of malignity. If you were to put animals on a scale of evil, one being a puppy and ten at Satan, a goose is probably a seven or eight*. 

[* Cats are a perfectly balanced five, as they are independent agents of chaos not beholden to Heaven, Hell, or humanity; only themselves.]

It’s a small town. There’s bound to be free-roaming animals. He’s seen rabbits and squirrels off the sides of the roads. Mostly they scurry away at the noise. They’ve been warned about foxes, clever little buggers; but there’s little they can do other than secure their compost pile and hope for the best. 

The goose stares at him, as if in challenge. What quarrel a bird would have with him is inscrutable to Crowley, but it seems to have one nonetheless. Crowley continues weeding the herb boxes and thinning out the seedlings. The goose continues to watch: suspiciously, intensely.

Crowley finishes up and tosses the weeds into the compost. “Not sure what you’re giving me the stink-eye for, but I’m just trying to live my life. I think we deserve a bit of a holiday after all the malarkey that’s happened this year.” 

The goose tilts its head, the way some dogs do when they encounter something they don’t understand. But it’s not a puzzled tilt, more like a _go on, please elaborate_ one. 

“Not that I expect you to understand, but the world very nearly ended. Would have been rather inconvenient for you, I think. My best friend and I gave the Antichrist a pep talk and he fixed it. Or kicked the can down the road, we’re not really sure about that yet. And then we both quit our jobs. Or got fired. Suppose it depends on who you ask.”

He can’t believe he’s doing this. Maybe the new environs are affecting his sleep more than he thought. But it’s… therapeutic, somehow, to talk it out, even if the goose doesn’t understand a word. 

“Must be easier for you. All you have to do is find a nice lady goose—or gander, I have no idea. No need to wonder if you’re going to have to wait another six thousand years before things move forward. Not that it’s bad now, I want to stress. But it feels like we’re close to something. It just needs a bit of a push in the right direction. Don’t think that’s my call, though.” 

The goose makes a noise that Crowley surmises might be thoughtful and waddles off. Maybe an early night would be wise. More sleep like this and he’s going to start having tea parties with the hedgehogs.

— 

He wanders into the kitchen, yawning. It’s a lovely morning, sun streaming in from the windows. Aziraphale is sitting at the kitchen island, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. He looks up when he hears Crowley and smiles. 

“Good morning, my dear. Would you like some coffee?” Maybe one day this won’t feel like they’ve gotten away with something huge: Aziraphale here, in the same place as Crowley, today and for the foreseeable future. But that’s a bit much over breakfast, or the time when most humans would be having such.

“Love some, yeah.” 

Aziraphale hops off the stool, fills a mug the human way, and presses it into Crowley’s hands. He holds onto it until he’s satisfied Crowley’s grip on it is secure, their fingers not quite slotted together. “There you go.” He smiles again before going back to his tea and newspaper. 

Crowley looks down at what mug he’s holding. It’s the devil of the matched set they purchased one night when they were too drunk to be buying things. He was going to give them to the charity shop, but Aziraphale looked at them and said “Oh, just bring them along. They’re absolutely darling.” 

He takes a sip. It’s only now he notices Aziraphale’s using the angel mug for his tea. _It’s pure coincidence_, he chides himself. _Stop looking for deeper meaning where there isn’t any, or you’ll drive yourself mad. _

— 

It’s a few days later when he goes out to the back. Aziraphale is sitting on a lawn chair reading, his feet propped up on the accompanying ottoman. Every now and then he takes a sip of sangria from the glass on the end table.

Crowley grabs the hose and starts watering the hedges around the house. Whoever lived here before planted spindles and all sorts of shrub roses, ensuring every window has something pleasing to look at or smell. The estate agent didn’t have any information on the previous residents, but it’s evident to Crowley somebody cared about it very much, or at least the plants. He doesn’t even have to yell to get them to grow lovely and verdant, and their flowers are always glorious. He considers taking some of the more unruly houseplants out here and hoping they’ll learn by example. 

He’s not really paying attention as he finishes his round of watering and coils the hose back up. And to be fair, there’s no bloody reason he should be expecting a broom to be firmly wedged in his path, waiting to trip him up. He stumbles over it, pitching himself right on top of Aziraphale and his book.

“Oh Crowley! Are you all right?” 

“Mrph,” he says, from where his face is currently mashed into the angel’s chest. Aziraphale is pleasantly cushioned; but there’s also muscle under plump, yielding flesh, as Crowley is discovering. Intellectually, he supposes he must have known this, given that Aziraphale hauls boxes of books around all the time; but it is another thing to be literally confronted with the evidence. 

He finds himself gently pushed away, just far enough that Aziraphale can check him over for injuries. Aziraphale keeps a steadying hand between his shoulders, using his other hand to tilt Crowley’s head this way and that. 

It’s right about now he realises he’s awkwardly sprawled on Aziraphale’s lap, and that he should probably get up. But Aziraphale still has his hands on him, and it feels wonderful. They’re warm, and he’s rubbing circles into Crowley’s back with his fingers, his other hand curled around the side of his face. They’ve both patched each other up through the centuries, and offered the other a hand to hold, for comfort or as a way to deal with the pain. This is not either of those things. It's tender, soothing, lingering more than necessary for any sort of first aid assessment.

Aziraphale seems to realize this, and he takes his hands away. "Forgive me, my dear. I was a bit... zealous in my concern."

Crowley does not whine at the loss of the angel's touch, but he definitely thinks about it. "No worries," he says, deliberately light. "I'd do the same." 

"You shouldn't leave things out like that. Next time I might not be here to break your fall, and then where would you be?" 

Crowley picks up the broom and puts it in the little closet where the gardening tools live. "Ridiculously careless of me, you're right. Don't fancy cracking my head open."

"Well, I'm glad you're all right." He returns to his book, satisfied the danger is past.

Crowley goes back into the house, looks out the kitchen window. Beyond the fence in the back, he sees the goose. He'd almost forgotten about it. It just stands there, observing, although what exactly it's looking at Crowley could not say.

He goes into his bedroom for a nap. Right before he drifts off, he remembers he put the broom next to the back door. There's no way it could have accidentally fallen the way it did. 

He turns over and reminds himself to get a lock for the gardening closet. Better safe than sorry; he doesn’t know how much damage this corporation can take, and he's not keen to find out.

— 

They live close enough to town that it’s a moderate walk to the weekly market on the village green. It’s not a farmer’s market per se, although there are certainly farmers with fruit, vegetables, and other locally produced things for sale. Aziraphale is fond of the little bakery pop-up, where they sell chocolate chip espresso cookies made of rye flour and sprinkled with chunky sea salt. Crowley prefers the simplicity of their sourdough, the tang of the starter contrasting pleasantly with rich butter made from cows he can name. 

They wander through the stalls, buying groceries and silly things nobody needs but make life more pleasant, like little pots of homemade jam and herb-infused vinegars they’ll probably never use but sound like an excellent idea at the time. They point out ridiculous-looking dogs to each other and stop to toss coins in the instrument cases of the students busking. 

Even after the shopping is done, it’s relaxing to just wander aimlessly, heading towards anything eye-catching. They have no plans, the sun is shining, and Aziraphale is happy. _What more could I ever want? _Crowley thinks to himself. _Before, I would have endured another Fall to have even a fraction of this. I’m fortunate, and I should be grateful._

Aziraphale smiles then, softer but no less affectionate, like he’s modulating the intensity of it in response to Crowley’s proximity. Not that it makes a difference to Crowley. _I’d burn myself to ash to behold your light,_ he thinks. But it’s not like that. It is the east, and Aziraphale is the sun that reflects light on Crowley’s moon*. He wonders how warm those cheeks would be if he kissed them, those lips. (They would be soft, he knows for sure.)

[* Just because he dislikes the sad ones doesn’t mean he’s not familiar with them.]

Aziraphale catches him looking and glances away, still smiling. For a long time Crowley thought it was a coquettish affectation, but it’s more a sign he’s overwhelmed in a good way. Crowley finds it disgustingly endearing, and wonders if that tosser Gabriel would have the bollocks to call him soft for it. 

“I feel rather done with walking around. Shall we go home and have some lemonade? I’ve made a batch with some lavender and mint from your boxes, and I’m eager to see how it’s turned out.” 

“Should be perfect, if the herbs know what’s good for them.”

“Really, my dear. Let the poor things be.”

“When they learn to behave, I will.”

Aziraphale gives an amused snort and cuts through a narrow alley. Like so many old English towns, the notion of a grid system is theoretical at best. While the path through the back ways is a little more circuitous, it is quicker than taking the main road.

Crowley ambles along, following Aziraphale, thinking about where to take his afternoon nap. It’s warm enough he could probably lay outside, sprawled in the sun. But the dark coolness of the library also appeals, surrounded by the smell of old paper and Aziraphale’s cologne.

His musings are interrupted by a force pushing him none too gently against a brick wall. Before he can be indignant about it, a ridiculous looking trolley attached to a golf cart whizzes past. 

He’s glad for the support of the wall when the realization of his near miss hits. It probably wouldn’t have discorporated him, but it’s rather likely it would have led to a serious injury.

It takes another moment to realize Aziraphale is pressed up against him, his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and head shoved into the crook of his neck. He was what pushed Crowley into the wall. He’s trembling, the soft heat of his breath against where Crowley’s neck meets his shoulder.

“You saved me,” Crowley says, taking a shaky breath of his own.

“I suppose I did.” Aziraphale pulls back just enough so he can look at Crowley, reassure himself he is indeed unharmed.

They’re closer than they were in the old hospital. If Crowley moved just a tiny bit he could press his lips to Aziraphale’s very slightly parted mouth. He does not know if Aziraphale would open up further, letting Crowley explore with his tongue. Perhaps he would demand otherwise, insisting Crowley be kissed instead. Maybe he would press Crowley against the wall, ravishing him just with his mouth and tongue and hands.

He shivers pleasantly at the thought.

Aziraphale is still trembling and he rests a hand at his nape, just enough to feel grounding.

“All right?” He asks softly.

It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise Crowley is talking to him. 

“Oh yes,” he replies, still a bit distant. “I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to take the main road the rest of the way home.”

“No objections here, trust me.”

As they walk towards the road, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Crowley looks back in the direction the cart came from, and swears he can see a spot of white.

— 

He walks into the bookshop on the disgustingly picturesque high street and marvels at how different it is from Aziraphale’s. There are only the big windows in front, but they’re sparkling clean and full of themed recommendations; save for a corner with a worn pillow covered in hair. He feels a brush and looks down to see the likely occupant, a long-haired smoke-coloured cat.

“Hullo,” he says, but doesn’t bend down to pet it or let it sniff his fingers. It twitches its tail and stalks away to the back, offended.

He hears a laugh from behind the till. A woman with brown skin and thick, dark hair smiles. It’s an easy gesture, and he already feels welcome. 

“That’s Zahra, our resident majesty princess. She knows to leave people alone if they don’t seem interested, but she still thinks she should be paid proper respect.”

“A magnificent creature like herself deserves nothing less. I’ll remember that next time I come in.”

“Helena Beutner, proprietor of this fine establishment,” she says, putting out her hand.

“Anthony Crowley, likely customer,” he replies, shaking it.

She tilts her head, looking at him. “You don’t strike me as a ‘Tony’ kind of person, but I wanted to make sure.”

“You would be correct.*”

[* He’s very much not fond of the diminutive, probably because the last person who called him anything other than Anthony or the local equivalent was Leonardo da Vinci. It’s a good thing Tonino isn’t a particularly common nickname in England.]

“That probably works out for the best, because my partner’s name is Toni and that would get confusing.” He now notices a picture of Helena and another woman behind the counter: pale skin, short, dark hair, and a normally severe face lightened by the adoration pouring off her towards Helena.

“You look lovely together,” he says, and means it.

“Thank you,” she replies. “So how can I help you?”

“Well, that’s a bit hard to explain.” He briefly describes the situation with the goose, feeling a bit foolish the entire time.

Helena tries not to smirk and fails. “I’m sorry, it does sound like a menace. But I’m not sure a bookshop is equipped to deal with this sort of situation.”

He nods, and wonders if there’s a knowledgeable farmer to consult.

Helena looks at him, thinking for a moment. “I know this is a bit forward, considering we just met, but would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

“If that’s not a euphemism for something else, sure.” 

She laughs and motions him out the door, locking up behind her. They go to the coffee shop next door and place their orders, sitting at an outside table so she can keep an eye on things.

She waits until their drinks arrive and they’ve had a chance to enjoy them (they are very good) before she resumes the conversation.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, and feel free to tell me to fuck off, but it’s a small town. Word gets round quickly any time somebody new moves in. The white-haired gentleman. Is he your partner?”

He wants to laugh. They are, in so many regards: preventing the Apocalypse, crime (although Aziraphale would never put it that way), life, but not necessarily in the way people expect.

“It’s Facebook complicated,” he finally decides*. 

[* Yes, he’s responsible for this too. And like all of his best/worst ideas, it bites him in the ass.]

Helena makes a sympathetic noise. “I have so been there.” 

She stirs her drink. “I’m not just being nosy, in case you were wondering. When I opened the shop, people told me all sorts of weird stories about this place. A lot of it is run of the mill small town whatever, but one of the pensioners said her gran told her stories about a goose. Turns out a lot of people around here have.”

“All right.”

“Something about an old witch’s spirit, losing her chance at love. Nobody’s been able to say why exactly. I’ve heard everything from rival families, death, or just plain old stubbornness. The only part the stories agree upon is she takes the shape of a goose.”

“Why a goose though?”

Helena laughs, her eyes bright. “It’s pretty hard to ignore a goose when it wants you to do something, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not trying to make me do anything. Unless dying counts.”

Helena pauses, her cup halfway to her mouth. “I don’t think it’s your behaviour the goose is trying to change, Anthony.”

Oh blessed fucking heaven. She really does have it out for him. It’s the only explanation. He and Aziraphale survive the almost-Apocalypse, only to run into another witch’s schemes. And this one isn’t above trying to murder Crowley to hammer a point home because of her unresolved issues. How is this his life?

“Grand,” he sighs.

“Sorry about the whole homicidal bird thing.” Helena pats his shoulder awkwardly. “I can recommend a book to distract from your impending doom if you like?”

Crowley does laugh at that, and comes home with a novel about an astronaut for him, and a fantastical meditation on the power of story and myth for Aziraphale. 

— 

Nothing untoward happens for a bit. Crowley finishes his book and goes back to the shop for another recommendation. It’s nothing like the astronaut novel; it’s not even fiction. Helena assures him it has the same kind of doorways, whatever that means.

He tends the herbs. Aziraphale experiments with different combinations in his batches of lemonade, writing down the results in a little notebook. They go to the market same as always, although they don’t take the back way anymore. Aziraphale doesn’t reach for Crowley’s hand again, and Crowley wishes peril wasn’t required for the intimacy he craves.

He's sitting out in the back, reading his latest book. It fills in some gaps about events he only heard about, being too far away to observe first-hand. (And he finds it just as interesting as the novel, to his chagrin. He imagines the smirk he'll see on Helena's face when he tells her this.)

He's down to the last bit of his Pimm's cup, so he goes in to fix himself a refill. When he comes back out, there is a familiar menacing bird-shaped figure on the back patio. 

"I was wondering where you went. Not that I missed the attempts on my life. I've been told about you."

The goose cocks its head.

"Your, er, origins. And your past. 'M sorry about how it worked out for you, but trying to kill me so the angel will swoop to my rescue isn't going to help anything." He takes a sip of his drink. "And besides, if She didn't make it happen after all… that, maybe it wasn't meant to be."

Actually saying it, giving the thought form, makes his heart feel like it's scraping over long rusted metal. This is why humans repress things, so they can convince themselves that everything is fine while the house burns down around them. And unlike humans, the power of Crowley's imagination can protect him. It got him through a highway and vehicle on fire, all the way to Tadfield. Surely it can handle the assertion that what he and Aziraphale have is more than enough.

The goose makes eye contact. He’s heard some animals consider it a sign of aggression, but he doesn't understand until he's pinned down by that beady stare.

It keeps staring at him as it waddles over to the low table where his glasses are.

"You little asshole, don't you _dare_."

It picks up Crowley's glasses in its beak and _runs_. 

Now Crowley has no clue if an ordinary goose is capable of running at speeds like this. Nor does he particularly care, because this goose is the one in front of him, making off with something of his. It leads him a merry chase through the edges of town, skirting gardens and orchards. 

He’s about to surrender to the protests his corporation gives at this unusual and intense activity when he spots the goose in an equipment shed. His glasses dangle tantalizingly from its beak. 

He probably should have realised something wasn’t right when he walked up to the shed and the goose made no effort to move. 

“This ends now, you bastard.” Crowley dives after it, landing unceremoniously on the floor of the shed. The goose drops his glasses and has the audacity to walk on his head, getting its grubby webbed feet all over his hair. He’s still processing the disgustingness of it all when he hears the door slam shut.

Bloody hell. He tries the door. It’s well stuck, although he doesn’t know if it’s from neglect or malice. He’s going to discorporate in the stupidest, most embarrassing way possible, wasting away in a South Downs gardening shed.

He rattles the door again. If he was not panicking, he probably would have noticed a shelf precariously nailed above the entrance. And if he had noticed that, it is likely he would have seen the rather heavy objects on said shelf. But he did not, and he shakes the door with the strength of an unnerved demon. The shelf gives way and something solid painfully collides with his head.

— 

“Crowley? Crowley my darling, wake up. Please wake up.” There are soft hands on his face, gently tapping his cheeks. 

“Nrgh?” Satan’s bollocks, his head hurts. It doesn’t feel like a hangover hurt though; more like a bashed on the head hurt, very much like when “Aziraphale” got dragged off to Heaven. (He really wishes he had fewer points of comparison for this type of injury.)

He opens his eyes to see a badly shaken Aziraphale kneeling beside him. His hair is in genuine disarray, and his eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying. 

“Oh thank goodness.” Aziraphale presses his forehead against Crowley’s, as if to reassure himself Crowley’s really there. He’s shaking, worse than with the cart. 

“I thought they’d taken you, my darling. I thought they’d finally caught up to us and they were going to hurt you for what we did. And I realised what a bloody fucking coward I’ve been, not letting you know. I am a fool, my dearest, quite possibly the biggest in the cosmos; and I don’t deserve your love, much less your company, but I love you, I need you desperately, and I will fight the combined forces of Heaven and Hell before I am parted from your side.” Aziraphale babbles this into Crowley’s ear, clutching him like he’s going to be wrest from Aziraphale’s arms any second.

“I see,” Crowley replies. He thinks it’s a cromulent response, given that his world has just turned upside down and he’s still dealing with the after-effects of a probable concussion. 

“You insufferable snake, how I adore you.” Aziraphale makes a wet noise into his shoulder, although this one sounds more relieved than distressed. 

“How did you find me?” He asks.

“That is a story in itself.” Aziraphale lifts his head off Crowley’s shoulder. “If it hadn’t happened to me I would scarce believe it.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Crowley says dryly.

“You didn’t show up for lunch, so I became concerned, but I figured you’d gotten caught up in something. And then you didn’t come home for tea and I got frightened. I kept calling your mobile, but you didn’t pick up. I was about ready to contact the police when a goose appeared outside the kitchen window.” 

“How odd.”

“Absolutely ridiculous, I know. It kept staring at me, so I went outside. It seemed very insistent that I follow it, as it made a dreadful racket every time I tried to stop. They are such rude creatures.” 

_Don’t I know it_, Crowley thinks.

“And it brought me here, where I found you, so I suppose I can’t be too upset.” 

He places a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “I am so sorry it has taken extraordinary circumstances to drive me to action where you are concerned. You are the most precious thing to me, and I do a very poor job of showing that. It is something I’m going to spend the rest of our days making up for.”

“Angel, no, it’s not—” 

“Hush, dearest.” And Aziraphale kisses him, with relief, desire, joy, and love, so much love in it Crowley feels like he’s going to discorporate for sure, overflowing with emotion that can’t be contained within a physical body. He’s laughing with tears slipping down his cheeks, and Aziraphale wipes them away with his fingers and keeps kissing him wherever he can reach. 

Finally they stop, and Crowley’s body makes it known how much it does not appreciate this much time on a hard floor. His head still hurts, and he feels like he could eat—not just filch bites from Aziraphale’s plate, but an entire proper meal and perhaps then some. There will be Actual Conversations later, but for now all he wants is to sit down somewhere comfortable near his best friend and partner. 

“I think I’d like to go home, angel,” he says. 

Aziraphale pulls him up off the ground, and twines their fingers together. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

—

**EPILOGUE**

AC: I don’t suppose any of those stories ever said what happens when the goose gets what it wants?

HB: *eyes emoji*  
HB: Not as such, no. But I have a feeling you won’t be seeing it around anymore.

AC: Good riddance.

HB: *laughing emoji* Come by and bring your partner. I have some books you can read together.

AC: Wouldn’t miss it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [These](https://www.dhgate.com/product/creative-cute-devil-and-angel-mugs-coffee/460072370.html?skuAttr=9999:1000#pdsosim-1-5%7Cnull:9001:r1075620531) are the mugs. Aren't they cute??
> 
> I actually did try to find out the running speed of a goose but then I realized no one cares. I did, however, run across this truly amazing [WikiHow to stop a goose attack](https://www.wikihow.com/Stop-a-Goose-Attack).
> 
> Helena's book recommendations  
Crowley: _The Martian_, Andy Weir; _Letters to Father: Suor Maria Celeste to Galileo, 1623-1633_, Suor Maria Celeste (trans. Dava Sobel)  
Aziraphale: _Alif the Unseen_, G. Willow Wilson


End file.
